The Emperor's Men 4: Uprising

by Dirk van den Boom

  Ambrosius allowed the hint of a smile. “You think like a soldier, my brother.” Before the latter could reply, the Bishop raised his hand. “That was no criticism. We live in times when you, as a man of the church, must think like a soldier. We are disciples of Jesus, Petronius. We are leading a great crusade, and the enemies are many. These are not only the time-wanderers themselves, but also those who support or at least tolerate them.”

  Petronius whispered, “But this also includes the Emperor …”

  “Yes, the Emperor. What do you learn from that conclusion, my friend?”

  Petronius thought for a moment. Although the Bishop had said that nothing was wrong with his argumentation, he suspected that something more was expected. “We should find ways other than direct confrontation. We must first find allies, influence moods, spread rumors. We must tear or at least shake the foundation on which the strangers are standing. They must be on their own once we attack again. No one should help them. And if they are beaten, no one shall think of revenge or retribution.”

  Petronius looked into the Bishop’s eye and recognized respect and affirmation. He felt the man’s hand on his shoulder, the gentle pressure of his fingers. He saw his smile.

  “Petronius, you will get far.”

  “I serve the Lord and his church.”

  “Very far, my brother, very far. But before we talk about gratification and recognition, we have to talk about what you have just made clear. Let’s talk about this village, the settlement with all the demonic things that are built there. Let us talk about the people who work there and who are helplessly exposed to the evil influence of the demon worshipers. Let us talk about what is to be done to free them from the claws of their spell, cleanse their souls and lead them to the light – and let us speculate about what the population of beautiful Ravenna can do to help us with our plans.”

  Petronius’ eyes were shining. Whatever the Bishop of Milan thought, it was entirely according to the taste of the priest. “I’m anxious to hear your suggestions,” he replied eagerly.

  Then they put their heads together.

  Whoever happened to enter the chapel by chance, would see two priests who were quietly and passionately praying, a constant, eternal litany in honor of the Lord.

  And the plan slowly took shape.

  5

  Markus Tennberg was tortured.

  No one was poking him with glowing irons. The Ensign in the Imperial German navy, even if he didn’t believe that he would continue to occupy this position any longer, was fully aware of the fact that the Roman state had the most capable and experienced torturers in his service and little scruple to employ their talents against anyone from whom one hoped for information. At the present time, however, the young man wasn’t exposed to such physical torture. This didn’t mean that this couldn’t change, and this thought made him as uncomfortable as any kind of real torture he might be subjected to.

  Tennberg sat on the straw bag, which served him as a bed. He looked out of the narrow hole, barely a brick’s size, in the wall, through which daylight penetrated his dungeon cell. There wasn’t much to see. He stared directly at an opposite wall. The cold winter air reached his nose, mixed with the warmth of the fire, which pushed through the grilles from the other side. The cell had no door but a wall of iron bars, as did the six other cells of the small prison. All the metal walls were aligned to a wide corridor, which ended on a heavy wooden door. In the middle of the corridor, a fire burned in a half-open fireplace, and the three legionaries who guarded the prisoners were sitting in front of it.

  Tennberg was currently the only inmate. The Romans largely ignored him, talking quietly, chewing on something, playing a game. Scarcely ever a glance struck him. Twice a day, morning and night, a meal was given to him, nothing special, but enough to keep him properly fed. He received water all day. Nobody wanted him to go hungry or thirsty.

  This wasn’t the torture either.

  The real torture consisted of the visits of his shipmates.

  No, he always corrected himself – his former shipmates. In most cases, they were men of the infantry, not even his old navy friends. Hard men, and in their faces a lot of determination as much as contempt. It was this contempt that made him feel sleepless at night. The coldness in the eyes, without compassion. Each of these men would kill him, without hesitation, if the order would be given. Tennberg knew why the interrogations were not carried out by the men of the Saarbrücken. Tennberg had followed von Klasewitz because he had been promised a rapid career in the Roman Empire. But he had never been the angry grinder and arrogant asshole like the nobleman, not more than a little ensign who had wanted to take an abbreviated climb on the way up. This abbreviation had, after a few detours, brought him directly into a dungeon cell in the small settlement close to Ravenna, which had been created around the cruiser, and where Dahms was concerned with initiating an industrial revolution.

  Tennberg tried to guess what would happen to him. He had retained his knowledge on the whereabouts of von Klasewitz and his plans to that day, awaiting to be beaten or worse.

  No one had struck him. Every day the same questions were asked. Where is the nobleman? Who has he allied with? Who helps him? What is he doing? What kind of knowledge does he give his friends? What resources are available to him? What was he doing in Alexandria?

  No word had passed his lips. He had reaped glances of contempt and disgust, but no one had raised his hand against him. They gave him food and a warm bedroom. Every three days, hot water was brought, and he had to wash his whole body. He was supposed to live and to do well – according to the circumstances. Everyone waited for Rheinberg’s return in order to bring affairs to an end.

  What would Rheinberg’s order be? Tennberg didn’t remember him as a particularly cruel officer. But he must have changed now that he was among the leaders of the Empire. Politics, as Tennberg has already learned despite his young age, was often more important than individual preferences and desires. “Reason of state” was the overriding concern. And sometimes people like him fell victim to it.

  And there were good reasons why he could become one of these victims.

  Tennberg felt a shiver run through his body. He didn’t tremble because of the cold air.

  He turned around as someone opened the door. It was a familiar face, expressionless, with cold eyes. The high grown man wore the uniform of the infantry, as all his conversation partners so far. His badges identified him as a lieutenant, perhaps a platoon leader. Tennberg couldn’t remember his name. The man had probably never mentioned it.

  It was like a ritual. Tennberg was to sit on the only piece of furniture in his cell, a coarse-tiled stool. Then two men entered, the lieutenant and an infantryman with a raised weapon whose barrel was directed directly at Tennberg’s skull. The lieutenant went behind the prisoner and tied his hands together with a shackle. When Tennberg was secured, the infantryman lowered the weapon and stood watchful in a corner.

  The lieutenant began his encirclement.

  He walked around the sitting Tennberg. No word came over his lips. He made his rounds. Tennberg had begun to count them. The interrogation usually didn’t begin until the lieutenant had finished his fourth round. He was predictable, and so the menacing posture of this ritual faded. It got boring.

  Tennberg would be careful not to show that. He made sure that he seemed intimidated, even frightened. His boredom was his treasure, his tiny advantage, and he clung to it fervently.

  “Well, Ensign?”

  The cold voice intersected his thoughts. Tennberg twitched involuntarily. He had to accept that his nerves were not in good condition.

  “What does your future look like?”

  Tennberg was confused for a moment. Was this a new question? No one had ever wanted to talk to him about this topic. He also didn’t believe that this question was asked out of genuine concern. “I do not know,” the prisoner replied truthfully.

  “No wishes, ideas?”

  “They�
��re no longer important.”

  “Why?”

  “I am trapped, a mutineer, and a deserter. My punishment is inevitable.”

  “So you know your future?”

  “As far as the end of this process is concerned, yes. Execution awaits me.”

  “Aaah, yes. Execution. A simple and obvious solution.”

  Tennberg said nothing.

  The lieutenant made a round and spoke. “It’s not that easy, Ensign. We are no longer in our time and our country. Things have changed.”

  “I was told that the laws of the German Reich continue to be valid. And even the laws of Rome clearly state what has to be done with mutineers. I do not see what has changed.”

  “You’ve been dealing intensively with these things, have you?”

  “I’m informed.”

  “Then why did you mutiny?”

  “It seemed to me to be the right thing, and a superior officer had strengthened me in this view.”

  Tennberg had expected a burst of hatred comments for his reply, but nothing of the sort happened. The Lieutenant seemed rather thoughtful. “Yet something has changed, Tennberg. We are fighting for our survival. We are by no means as superior to the Romans, as we would have liked. We must convince and impress them.”

  Tennberg said nothing. He didn’t even feel that these observations were addressed to him.

  “I see your future somewhat different from you,” the Lieutenant finally said. He went to squat before Tennberg, looked into his face. “You count on your death, Ensign?”

  The prisoner nodded.

  “What if I offer you your life?”

  Tennberg made a comprehensive hand movement. “And this is my life? It would be like a death, but much slower and more agonizing.”

  The lieutenant looked at him searchingly. “Many people in your situation would seize the opportunity and hope for future pardon.”

  Tennberg shook his head. “Not me.”

  “You underestimate Captain Rheinberg.”

  “Maybe.”

  “The offer could be better than you’d expect.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your life and more.”

  “More?”

  “Exile. The Empire is great. A Greek island perhaps, a life as a farmer or fisherman. Retired, yes, but as a free man on his own soil. A woman and children, why not? With your knowledge, you would be of value; you might even be very popular with the local population and could be of help. No one needs to know why you have settled there.”

  Tennberg looked at the Lieutenant and could hardly suppress the hope that had suddenly arisen in him. What the man offered him, seemed to be a probable way as punishment for his deed. And it was better, much better than execution or a life in a cell. But was it also meant to be serious?

  The Lieutenant must have considered his concerns. He smiled a thin, cheerless smile. “Doubts, Tennberg?”

  “For sure.”

  “Good. I will not take you on that road now. Perhaps the Captain, if he accepts your cooperation, will, and he arrives shortly. Maybe he doesn’t like my idea. You are so far away from any trust, comradeship, or any security in dealing with us, that I can well imagine that your way back is long and difficult and perhaps not open at all.”

  Tennberg nodded. What else could he have said? The man was absolutely right. He felt the fetters loose. He rubbed the wrists, looked at the Lieutenant questioningly.

  “That’s it. Think about it. Consider whether Captain Rheinberg is a traitor or an honorable man. Do not close yourselves to others. Consider your opportunities.”

  So the man turned away, and the two soldiers left the cell.

  The door closed.

  Markus Tennberg was alone with his thoughts.

  6

  Von Klasewitz looked pleased at the destruction. At first sight, it didn’t seem to be particularly impressive – a simple wall of stones, connected with loose mortar, which was still moistened by the weather, stood before him. There was a big hole in it, caused by a round ball of solid granite fired by his cannon. Probably the wall would have been damaged if the two legionaries, who stood beside the German, would’ve thrown the bullet with muscular force. Nevertheless, everyone was satisfied. Among the observers, Roman officers, some craftsmen, and other legionaries guarding the site, there was a good mood. Klasewitz allowed himself a smile.

  It was done.

  Almost lovingly, the time-traveler looked at the marvel of technology to which he owed this success. The cannon was made of bronze, the simplest alloy to be produced, and a second one, made of cast iron, stood directly beside it. This one had not yet passed its test.

  The bronze cannon had been cast from one piece, a belly of about three meters in length, erected on a wooden stand, tied with ropes. The setback had caused the buck to tremble, and the craftsmen were still working on a more stable version, but the cannon had been static enough to be able to target and deliver its volley. The powder had ignited as expected, the ball had left the pipe, the pipe didn’t break – this weapon would be able to fire again.

  The first Roman cannon. Von Klasewitz was certain of it. If he was sure of anything at all, then of the fact that he was the best expert on artillery on board the Saarbrücken.

  Had been, he corrected himself immediately.

  This, and the support of the Comes Maximus, Rome’s governor in Britain and usurper-to-be, had led to the ability of von Klasewitz, despite all setbacks and problems, to equip his army with field artillery. He had carefully observed that the production process of each piece was accurately recorded. A detailed production manual was also written for this bronze gun, with steps described and provided with drawings from skilled hands. The nobleman himself had contributed extensively, and the hard work had finally paid off.

  While he glanced at the new cannon, the foremen had given orders in the background, in the large manufactory hall. The workers immediately began to produce further pieces on the basis of the records of the successfully tested cannon. They would work day and night, and according to von Klasewitz’s estimates, he would be able to hand over forty cannons of this type to the Comes in four weeks’ time. And they had enough black powder, because unlike what he knew about Dahms’ progress, they had found a source of saltpeter and used it wisely.

  Forty cannons on a battlefield against the usual Roman formation, closely patterned, shield on shield – and then, that was the hope of the German, no longer with simple balls made of stone but with thin-skinned iron balls with a primitive impactor or even with sacks filled with shrapnel – the effect would be devastating, not least the psychological one. Von Klasewitz didn’t have any illusions about the fact that Rheinberg and his men would do all they could to even this advantage again, but this one, the first battle, would certainly be a joy for the enthusiastic observer.

  The preparations for the downfall of Gratian also proceeded according to plan. The escaped ex-Emperor Valens was dead, his attempt to betray their plans luckily failed. General Malobaudes continued to hold the Emperor’s trust and knew what needed to be done at the appropriate moment. The fact that the young Goth who had helped Valens had escaped, remained to be the only regrettable aspect. But who would believe this man if he reported, torn and wounded, to any Roman authorities that he had escaped from Gaul with the dead Emperor Valens?

  Nobody thought this a serious problem.

  General Andragathius, the closest confidant of Magnus Maximus, finally stepped forward, throwing a short, well-studied look at the shattered wall, and then turning to von Klasewitz before the eyes of all. “Today is a great day for the Roman Empire,” he said loudly. None escaped the fact that he laid his right hand on the shoulder of the time-traveler. “This man has given us the instrument with which we can lead Rome to a new prosperity, to new strength, and above all to new justice.”

  There was loud applause. Legionaries hit their shields with their swords. Shouting ensued. There was great enthusiasm everywhere, as they were now convinced of the
destructive power, as well as the functionality, of the new weapon. Von Klasewitz was careful not to dampen the euphoria. It was clear to him that any improved onager would have achieved the exact same effect with this hastily erected, brittle wall – or even more so. But it was not about the comparison of the punch-through force, it was about completely different effects, ultimately about questions such as range, fire speed, and the type of ammunition to be used. The use of artillery was by no means foreign to the Roman army, and the expert builders were masters of constructing mighty catapults and onagers, miracles of mechanics with considerable power. However, these were generally designed as siege machines and played a very subordinate role in the classic field battle, if at all. This was what von Klasewitz wanted to change, or even revolutionize. The artillery as an integral part of a battle, with the clear task of exerting as much destruction as possible before the beginning of the actual fighting, with the demoralizing effect of “invisible” death, the noise, the cruel mutilations that a hit necessarily brought with it. And if he had a whole company, or even two or three, who bombed the battlefield in regular staccato, one after the other, so that the first had already loaded again, while the last ones were still firing …

  The nobleman could not resist a joyful grin. The effect would be overwhelming. Yes, the Roman troops had discipline and fighting spirit, there was no doubt about that. But the legionaries could not be compared with the mercenaries of a terzio, who, in the Thirty Years’ War, marched through the rain of cannonballs and bullets with stoic serenity to finally to put an end to the enemy with their pikes. Of course the legionaries, who survived the first of these battles, would at some time get accustomed to this new mode of warfare, but Magnus Maximus would have already achieved a lot during his advance. The German enthusiasm and the ability of the time-travelers around Rheinberg to prepare and equip the Emperor’s troops in their own way were no longer limiting the confidence of the nobleman.